


Lacerate

by screechfox



Series: Amputate [2]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Blood Magic, Cybernetics, Emotional Manipulation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 01:50:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7386022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/screechfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's still a work in progress, but Strife manages to fashion himself a working arm. It's not perfect, but prosthetics are a new one on him.</p>
<p>But of course, he has to go and check up on his stupid blood-mage apprentice. </p>
<p>Parvis certainly has some things to say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lacerate

There’s no touch sensors in Strife’s new arm, so when Parvis latches onto him like a clingy, bony limpet, it takes him a few moments to slip away.

“Aw, Strifey!” Parvis flutters his lashes at Strife for a moment, with such wide and soulful puppy dog eyes that Strife knows he’s being messed with. “Can’t a guy be curious about his friend’s new arm?” 

There’s already a hint of a sly grin spreading over Parvis’ face as he finishes, so Strife doesn’t bother being too exasperated. He learnt long ago that trying to be cynical in the face of Parvis’ mischief is a lost cause, whether he likes it or not. 

(Not that it  _ stops _ Strife from being cynical, but it at least makes him think twice about wasting energy to show it.)

“It’s nothing fancy,” He says instead, “Just a simple test run, that’s all.” 

Parvis looks at him, both eyebrows raised. Strife can’t help but agree -  _ he _ wouldn’t quite believe that either.

“I dunno,” Parvis says, pursing his lips in an exaggeration of doubtfulness. “I mean, you had two arms the last time you were here, and now you’ve got one.” His dark eyes are gleaming with something unreadable as he stares at Strife. “I don’t think  _ that _ happens overnight, Strifey.”

Strife fixes him with the most withering look that he can muster, but Parv just holds his hands up, brow relaxing.

After a moment, Parvis speaks again, tilting his head. “Can I see it?"

Strife’s tempted to make a comment at that, but he bites it back. Parv’s expression seems honestly open - at least, as far as Parvis is ever open - and he’s not been particularly more annoying than usual.

“Fine,” He says, holding the arm out stiffly. “Just don’t break it.”

Parvis grins, as if delighted by the idea, as he reaches out to press a palm against the cool metal of Strife’s own.

And it’s not that Strife expected to feel anything, but it still feels like something large has passed by as he stands still with Parv’s hand on his own. The moment weighs heavy on his chest for a second, before it passes - as Parvis begins turning Strife’s arm and examining it carefully.

It moves pliantly, smooth and unresisting in Parv’s grasp, and Strife would find it disconcerting if he weren’t a little proud of it.

Well. A lot proud of it, really, if he does say so himself.

“Not too shabby, Strifey.” Parv’s other hand comes up to run over the raised areas. Display lights flicker on, giving out diagnostic information that is probably meaningless to Parvis. He still tilts his head at it as if trying to puzzle out their meanings, before looking up, and grinning a shark’s grin.

In his hand, all of a sudden, there is a dagger.

Strife would call it sleight of hand if Parvis wasn’t short sleeved and bare armed - one moment his hand is empty, and the next, there’s a crimson blade held against his arm.

It scratches against the metal with a screech that makes Strife’s head hurt. His arm tremors, as usual, but there’s no flesh to cut open - no wound for crimson to spill out of, to be lapped up by an endlessly greedy altar.

Just sparks, and high-pitched sounds.

Parv’s grin changes to a wide-eyed pout. His eyes are dark, almost black, in the low light.

“I hope you didn’t do this on purpose! I know you’ve got all your weird  _ principles _ about blood magic, but we’ve got all this work to do!” Parv pauses for a moment, but it’s clearly a theatrical one. Strife lets him finish, even with annoyance beating in his chest. “Better to have two half-bled arms than one full-bled one, eh?”

It’s a… surprisingly good point, really. His flesh arm stings already just at the thought.

“It was an accident,” he says, through gritted teeth. “Some robotics I was working on got out of hand, and I couldn’t heal it up.”

Parv makes a cloying sound and tuts, tapping the dagger against the arm once more before it disappears. “Well, that’s very silly, Strifey,” Parv moves in closer, and suddenly he’s so close that Strife would stumble back if his arm weren’t held in Parv’s grip.

They make eye contact, and even though Strife doesn’t have a hope in hell of reading Parv at this point, he can’t bring himself to look away.

Parv’s gaze is… intense, though. And for a moment, Strife wonders if he’s going to do something distinctly… well, untoward. His skin crawls at the idea - echoes of other times when Parv has gotten just a little too handsy.

But, quick as a summer rainstorm, the mood is gone. Parv pecks a kiss to Strife’s mouth for the briefest of seconds, and then darts away.

As he watches Parv go, Strife just counts his breaths, pulling his arm close into himself. One, in, two out. One in, two out.

Long, shaking breaths, as Parv reaches into a chest to pull out some new toy. He starts rambling about it, and it gives Strife a chance to tune him out - to only half listen, as he pulls himself together again.

 

Strife rarely manages to get any sleep at Parv’s castle. There’s always so much to do, and Parvis seems to eternally be high-strung on life, or on the heady buzz of blood magic. Even when they stumble into the sparse cult bedroom together, the iron-rust tang of blood weaves nightmares in Strife’s head.

That night, as the moon reaches its peak, he wakes in a sweat. The dream is faded already, long gone, but his hands are both pressed to his eyes like he’s trying to block out the sight of angels.

It’s a few seconds until he manages to calm himself, and he slowly pulls his hands away. He doesn’t need to wait for his eyes to adjust to tell that Parvis isn’t there - the darkness turns crimson at the entrance to the room. Parv probably just had some new project idea that absolutely could not wait.

With a sigh, Strife begins to pick himself out of the bed, rumpled and blurry-eyed. He feels exhausted now that he’s actually slept, but he’ll just have another nightmare if he goes to sleep. 

He walks out into the dimly lit main room, and joins Parvis at the altar without a word.

When Parv hands him the dagger, he takes it, and cuts open the pale flesh of his good arm without hesitation. The blood drips into the basin, and is swallowed up by the power that lurks within. It’s almost entrancing.

Parv is watching the trail of falling scarlet with what Strife thinks, for a moment, is his usual weird focus.

“I’m glad it was just your arm,” Parv says, a low murmur that Strife almost doesn’t hear. “I’m glad you’re okay, Strife.”

They look up, and they meet eyes.

It might be the blood loss, but Strife doesn’t even resist when Parv pulls him in for a kiss far more passionate than the second-long peck earlier. 

He falls into it, and is lost - swallowed up by Parv, and the hum of the altar, and the heady tang of magic.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at screechfoxes on tumblr.


End file.
